


Scratching the Itch

by tray_la_la



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tray_la_la/pseuds/tray_la_la
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy is a homophobe who's allergic to gay men. He's also the owner of a male modeling agency. Go figure. Harry Potter is a model for hire who may just prove to be the cure to Draco's ails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratching the Itch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_career_fair/profile)[**hd_career_fair**](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_career_fair/). A billion thanks to [](http://weasleywench.livejournal.com/profile)[**weasleywench**](http://weasleywench.livejournal.com/) for being such an amazing beta, and for giving me the idea for the title. And thanks to [](http://meredyth-13.livejournal.com/profile)[**meredyth_13**](http://meredyth-13.livejournal.com/) for using her expertise to give me a detailed analysis on Draco and Lucius's libations of choice. Oh, and I don't own Tom Jones or any of his musical creations. :P

"All right, send in the first one!" Draco released the intercom button and took a long pull from his cigarette. Slowly, the nicotine did its magic, curling its way around the inside of his skull to ease the slight ache at his temples, and he felt his shoulders relax.

These monthly check-ins were hell and Draco needed a little something to fortify him. Unfortunately, he'd come into work this morning to find his inbox overflowing and his bottle of Bowmore completely fucking drained. _Not_ a good way to start off the day.

The door to Draco's office opened and his headache returned in full as Marco slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Draco took another long drag before he spoke, smoke wrapping around every word. "What the _fuck_ are you wearing?"

Marco frowned and pulled at the hem of his t-shirt – thin and sheer and a riot of bright neon – revealing a few inches of tanned, bare torso in the process. Draco grimaced, just barely overcoming the urge to look away in disgust. Fucking Italians. He held them personally responsible for his second ulcer.

"What? You don't like it?"

Draco ashed his cigarette, swallowing down the nausea lodged in his throat before he spoke again. "It's fucking ridiculous, and what's more, you've got a casting for men's cologne this afternoon. The shoot will involve a living, breathing woman, so I need you to look at least passably heterosexual."

Marco opened his mouth to protest, but Draco cut him off. "I don't want to hear a goddamn word. It's a fucking campaign, and you need the work. What's it been since you last booked a job? A month? Two?"

Marco obediently shut his mouth, but he looked mightily pissed off. Which was exactly how Draco preferred things. If they weren't angry, the models got chatty, and nothing could ruin Draco's day faster than a chatty model.

"All right, then, since you haven't done a single useful thing in months, out you go. And send the next one in." Marco exited the office in a huff, and Draco turned his attention to his computer, clicking through a set of digitals from a new prospect in America.

He looked up when the door clicked shut again and frowned at the sight of David standing there, grinning like an idiot.

Draco leaned back in his chair and inhaled another lungful of smoke, eyeing David critically. He was German – tall, blond, and broad-shouldered – a real moneymaker. Draco's clients fucking loved him, but he was too heavy, in Draco's highly professional opinion.

Probably stuffing his face with bratwurst and schnitzel, Draco thought with a snort, and then grimaced at the potential double entendre.

He met the uncertain gaze hovering above David's phony smile. "You're too fucking fat."

David's smile faltered briefly before he pulled himself to his full height and sucked in his stomach just a touch. "I don't know what you mean. I haven't put on any weight since last month's check-in."

"True," Draco said, taking another drag of his cigarette and blowing three perfect rings of smoke into their air above his head. "But you were fat then, too."

David's hands curled into fists before he folded his arms and stuck out his chin. "My weight doesn't seem to bother the editors at _W_, seeing as how I booked that editorial _last week_," he said snottily.

Draco narrowed his eyes. David was one of the agency's top producers, and he fucking knew it, the little shit. "I don't give a flying _fuck_ what the editors at _W_ have to say about it. This is _my_ fucking agency, and I think you're too. Fucking. _Fat_." The vein near Draco's temple pounded, and he silently crowed with triumph when David took a small step back, hands falling back to his sides.

"However—" Draco leaned back in his chair and tapped some more ash into the tray, "—if you're interested in finding other representation, please be my guest. Though I doubt many agencies will be willing to raise your rate so you can send a little extra money home to Germany." Draco paused to watch the dawning horror on David's face as his words sunk in. "What was it you said your family did again? Pig farmers, was it?"

David looked stricken, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he started to slowly inch toward the door. "I'll- I'll lose the weight, Draco. I promise."

"What the hell are these idiots doing with their comp'd gym memberships, anyway?" Draco muttered as David slipped out of the office. "Cruising for dick?" He stubbed out his cigarette and punched the intercom button. "Penny, who the fuck is next?"

Draco's assistant was a nineteen-year-old Saint Martins drop out and complete pain in his arse, but she knew what the fuck an excel spreadsheet was – which was more than Draco could say – and she kept the models on track. Her most valuable role, however, was as the agency shoulder to cry on, sparing Draco from sob stories about cheating ex-boyfriends and bad coke binges after angry clients rang up wondering why the fuck their model was three hours late. Draco gave the end of his cigarette a particularly vicious flick. Fucking heathens.

Penny's voice squeaked across the connection. "Cameron's on a job in Majorca, Benny and Jay are at the Harrods's casting, and CJ's gone round the twist again. Called in to say he's at the apartment with a bottle of aspirin and a liter of vodka, ready to end it all. I sent Marco over to sort him out. I'll ring his mum if it gets bad."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for strength. "What about the rest of them?"

"I've penciled them in for this afternoon; you have a walk-in in ten."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Draco reached for his Dunhills and shook a cigarette from the pack. He groped in his desk drawer for his wand, found it and lit the tip. "Did you get polaroids first, or is this going to be another surprise street urchin, like the last one?"

"No polaroids," Penny said. "But he sounded fit over the phone."

Draco pulled hard on his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Penny, do me a fucking favor and don't talk to me for at least an hour." He slammed down on the intercom button and glanced over at the clock perched the corner of his desk. Only half eleven. Fucking perfect.

Draco conjured a glass of scotch and took a long swig, relaxing into the harsh burn. The magicked stuff wasn't nearly as good as the real thing – you just can't fake twenty-five years of proper ageing – but right now he would take what he could get.

Draco was two glasses deep by the time the knock on his door announced his 11:40, and he felt significantly better. He tucked his wand away in his desk drawer and beckoned in the knocker. "Welcome to Malfoy Model Management," Draco said as he shuffled things around his desk in search of his fountain pen and a blank sheet of paper. "Age, nationality, and _actual_ hair color."

Draco looked up and the newly discovered pen fell from his fingers. Potter's hands dipped into the front pockets of his jeans and he smirked. "Twenty-four, English, and black. But you already knew all that." Potter cocked his head and searched Draco's face for a minute before he smiled. "Nice to see you, Malfoy."

Draco's mouth opened and shut more times than he would have allowed a few years earlier, and he struggled to pull himself back under control. "Potter." He nodded, his tone carefully neutral. "I can't imagine why you're here. The meeting last month with my Muggle Liaison caseworker was without incident, and my reparations taxes are fully up to date. Officially, I run a legitimate business here, which is exactly what you can report back to the Ministry. Unofficially, this is my fucking agency, so kindly fuck the hell off."

Potter smirked again and Draco curled his fingers around the edge of his desk to prevent himself from doing anything stupid, like reach for his wand. His record was bloody pristine, as far as the Ministry was concerned, and Draco wasn't about to let Potter fuck it up. Even if the tosser looked like he was enjoying this far too much for Draco's tastes.

Potter shook his head. "Come on, Malfoy. You really think the Ministry sent me down here to check up on you? For what, exactly? Tyrannizing Muggle-kind one underwear campaign at a time?" He clucked his tongue. "Then again, you always did have an over-inflated sense of your own self-importance."

Draco snubbed out his cigarette and then reached for his Dunhills, tapping another one from the pack. He opened his drawer to retrieve his wand and lit the end, inhaling deeply; there was no need for pretense now. He took another long drag and relaxed back into his chair as he decided how to play this. He met Potter's eye and exhaled slowly. "Shirt off, then."

Potter's eyes widened and Draco fought the urge to gloat outright. If Potter fancied himself a model, Draco would bloody well treat him like one.

Potter recovered from his initial surprise and quickly peeled off his shirt. He dropped it onto the floor, flexing in that irritatingly deliberate way Draco had come to detest. Git.

Draco avoided unclothed models whenever possible, but a bit of skin came with the territory, unfortunately. He looked Potter up and down. There was no denying he was fit. Toned, but not too bulky for couture. He wasn't classically good-looking, no, but he had boyish good looks that were definitely marketable.

Draco had almost forgotten whom it was he was scrutinizing when Potter reached for his belt and started to pull it free from the buckle. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" he demanded, panicked, sitting forward in his seat and holding his hands up in a halting gesture.

Potter looked up and smiled, but he didn't take his hand off his buckle. "Thought you might want to check out the rest of the equipment, so to speak."

Draco's palms were sweating, and he realized he'd let Potter see more of a reaction than he would have preferred. "Very cute, Potter," he said, cool exterior slipping back into place. "But that won't be necessary." He paused to take a puff of his cigarette, relishing the look of anticipation that lurked beneath Potter's cocky impatience. "You're too short, but thank you for your interest in Malfoy Model Management, and best of luck. Penny will see you out." He turned back to his computer.

"Wait just a second, Malfoy," Potter spluttered. "You- You can't send me off, just like that."

Draco looked back up at Potter and smirked. "Of course I can, Potter. It's what I do. Just like that."

Potter narrowed his eyes. "Afraid I'll actually be successful and you'll have to owe me something?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. I have no problem showing my gratitude to anyone who makes me money."

Potter spread his hands wide and grinned. "Then what do you have to lose?"

Draco pulled hard on his cigarette. _Fuck_. He stabbed it out and bits of ash flew across the top of his desk. One landed near his hand and he flicked it away. "Fine," he gritted out.

Surprise flickered across Potter's face, easing the stab in Draco's gut that screamed this was a very bad idea. Still, he couldn't help his curiosity. "Why the fuck do you want to be a model anyway? The perks of the Auror squad not include enough designer clothing for your taste?"

Potter shrugged, and Draco silently cursed the unflappable temperament he seemed to have acquired since the war. "Sex sells, Malfoy."

Draco raised a brow, amused. "And you're sex, are you?"

Potter grinned, and fuck him if Draco couldn't already picture that smile plastered across every billboard in Soho. "I like to think so. Although I'm more than happy to provide a practical demonstration, if you need more than just my word to go on."

Draco grimaced, any lingering doubts about whether Potter was cut out for the industry officially extinguished. Fucking male models and their goddamn innuendo. Over-sexed poofters, the lot of them. He pulled the tape measure from his desk drawer and stood. "No demonstration necessary, Potter, I assure you. But I do need to measure you, so don't get any fucking ideas."

Draco walked around his desk and over to Potter like a man off to the gallows, because this was the part he really couldn't stand. The part that made his palms sweat and his head spin, that sent him running to the toilets nine times out of ten to press his face against cool porcelain as he heaved the contents of his stomach in one go.

A shiver ran through Draco's body, sourness stinging the back of his tongue and making his throat flex. He took a deep, calming breath through his nose. No one could say that Draco Malfoy didn't protect his investments, and like it or not, this pack of heathens was his cash cow. Potter included.

Draco stood in front of Potter and tried not breathe in through his nose; the smell always made it worse. He wasn't sure if it was some universal poofter cologne the models all wore, or if it was just the body lotion they were constantly rubbing themselves down with, but whatever it was, it made Draco fucking sick.

He pulled open the measuring tape and carefully wrapped it around Potter's left bicep. Skin-to-skin contact was the difference between an unpleasant couple of minutes and a re-acquaintance with his breakfast, so Draco worked with Healer-like precision to avoid any direct contact, dictating the measurements to his quill as he went along.

"Any tattoos or scars I should know about?" Draco asked automatically, cheeks burning when Potter chuckled. "Apart from the obvious, you shit."

"Well." Potter turned his back to Draco and reached around to tug down the waistband of his jeans. "There is one tattoo."

Draco braced himself as he glanced down at Potter's exposed lower back. "A Snitch?" he deadpanned. "How fucking predictable."

Potter craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the golden tattoo fluttering along the top of his left arse cheek. "I like it. Good memories, you know?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Lovely." He grabbed the end of the measuring tape and made to measure Potter's collar when Potter spun around unexpectedly and Draco's hands fell against his chest. He wrenched them back as if burned and his heart pounded as he waited for the nausea to creep up the back of his throat, his head already spinning with possible explanations to excuse himself before he hurled all over his office floor.

"Draco?" Potter put a steadying hand on Draco's elbow, his tone concerned. "You okay?" Draco blinked down at Potter's hand as several things occurred to him at once. He had touched Potter and he hadn't got sick. Potter was touching him now and he wasn't going to be sick. Apart from a bit of lightheadedness, he felt perfectly fine.

Draco shook his head and stepped out of Potter's grip. "Yes, yes, fine. Let's just get this over with." He moved behind Potter so he could compose himself and continued with the measurements, still making sure to avoid direct contact. "Penny will set up a test shoot for tomorrow before you leave, and make sure you're on time. There's no special treatment here, Potter."

Potter laughed. "Not a problem, Malfoy."

~

Draco looked down at his watch. If Potter didn't show up in the next minute-

"Sorry, Malfoy. I didn't account for the extra time not being able to Apparate would cost me."

Draco turned and wrinkled his nose. "Merlin, Potter, did you fucking _run_ all the way here?"

Potter wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, which only made room for new beads of sweat to shake free from his hair and slip down the sides of his face. "Nearly. I got off the tube at the wrong stop and then got lost. Bloody no-Apparition zones."

Draco raised a brow. "Well, pull yourself together. You look like shit."

"Whatever you say, boss," Potter said, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it right up over his head. Draco sneered. Fucking models. Absolutely no sense of propriety. Potter shoved the damp shirt straight into his rucksack and Draco's lip curled in disgust. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked. "Didn't think the head of the agency would show up to supervise a test shoot."

Draco cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Can't have you embarrassing me, Potter. I have a reputation to uphold, and Pierre hasn't worked with many of our models before." Draco looked across the studio to where the photographer was fiddling with the lighting and inwardly scoffed. It seemed like every idiot trying to break into the industry bought a beret, faked some horrible accent and called himself Pierre. Draco would bet his left nut the guy was really from Yorkshire.

"Anyway, I believe the stylist and the makeup artist are ready for you." He pointed to a corner of the studio where a petite woman with bright-pink hair was laying out rows shoes in front of a giant rolling rack of clothing. Another woman, who appeared to have some sort of bone poking straight through her nose, waved a flat iron-filled hand at Potter, beckoning him over.

Draco saw uncertainty flash on Potter's face for the first time since he stepped into Draco's office, cocksure as always. Draco beamed. "Off you go."

Potter took a deep breath and swung his rucksack over his shoulder, heading over to makeup like a man off to war, and Draco turned his attention to more pressing matters. Like what the fuck he was doing there.

He reached into his coat and pulled out his Dunhills, struggling with the Muggle lighter for a good minute or so before the damn thing finally lit. He took a deep drag.

He'd been up all night the night before, torn between delight and resentment that Potter might somehow be the cure to his little problem. On the one hand, it would make Draco's job a hell of a lot easier. The constant vomiting had started to give him acid reflux. On the other hand, Draco liked having a barrier between him and the models, and he worried the lack of contact-induced illness might lure him into a false sense of security. He'd always been a firm believer that homosexuality was communicable.

Draco flicked ash on the floor and raised an eyebrow when the overeager photographer's assistant shot him a dirty look. He stamped the cigarette out on the studio floor and reached for another as the stylist pushed Potter out from behind the clothes rack and trotted him over to where the camera was set up. She was pulling at something wrapped around Harry's neck and looked about a second away from a well-placed hex, if Potter's expression was anything to go by.

Based on Potter's ensemble, the hex would be entirely justified.

Potter was clad in heavy-looking black boots, faded blue shorts that barely hit mid-thigh, and a long waistcoat worn open over a deep v-neck t-shirt. The outfit was topped off with a black leather cord tied into a bow around Potter's neck. Even for high fashion, the whole thing was a little fey.

"Stop playing with it," the stylist scolded as she batted Potter's hands away and tightened the bow. "And don't make that face. This look was all over the runways in Paris." Draco rolled his eyes. Fucking Paris. He'd been to Paris: everyone wore black and nobody gave a damn.

"Wait, wait!" The makeup artist ran over from her station, waving what had to be the largest can of hairspray Draco had ever laid eyes on. She motioned for Potter to lean over. Potter scowled but submitted to her attentions as she enveloped his head in a halo of hairspray before tucking the can under her arm and using both hands to spike Potter's hair into a perfect black peak. She stood back and smiled. "There, all set."

Potter turned to Draco. "What do you think?" he asked, though it was clear from his expression that he wasn't at all impressed.

Draco cocked his head to the side and studied Potter critically. The outfit was certainly ridiculous. But then again, so was most high fashion. Still, Potter carried if off well. He met Potter's eye. "The clothes don't make the man, Potter. I'll tell you what I think after I see what you can do in front of the camera."

Potter gave him a lopsided smile before walking over to where the photographer had taken up his position behind the tripod. The stylist and makeup artist followed suit, and Draco trailed a little ways behind. The plan was to play it cool until the opportunity to touch Potter presented itself. The thought of intentionally touching Potter was enough to make him sick, but he had to be sure yesterday wasn't a fluke.

Draco winced. The things he did for business.

Just then Pierre looked up and spotted Potter, bursting into applause. "Oh, gorgeous! Sensationnel!" He adjusted his beret and looked down into the camera's viewfinder. "Right over there, love." He pointed to a spot in the center a white backdrop marked off with black tape. Potter stepped over the riot of cables that littered the floor and got into position. Pierre gave a thumb's up. "Great. Perfect. Really natural, yes? Really loose." Draco snorted. If he were a betting man, he'd guess Pierre was very familiar with that phrase. "Okay, let's go!"

The camera started to whir and click but Potter just stood there, blinking. He looked over at Draco as if hoping for some kind of direction, but Draco just smirked. "Sex itself, my arse," he muttered.

Pierre yelled something at Potter that may or may not have been French, and Potter seemed to come to life. He titled his head and angled his body. He jumped and stretched and laughed on command. Pierre shouted his praises and blew kisses over the lens. It was enough to make Draco fucking sick. But even he had to admit Potter looked good. Natural. Sellable.

Draco dissected Potter's various attributes as he continued to mug for the camera – face, arse, abs, hands. Merlin, even that hair – and ran through his client list, gleefully tallying up his sixty percent. He was so engrossed in what an ironically lucrative blessing Potter might turn out to be, he nearly missed Pierre call for the stylist. Apparently, the leather cord around Potter's neck had come undone, and it needed to be re-tied for the last shot before they could move on to the next look.

The stylist hurried over to Potter, but Draco held up a hand, pulling her up short. Now that he'd seen what Potter was capable of, he had a lot of work to do, and he couldn't wait around here any longer. "Please, let me. I'm very exact about these things." The stylist gave him a skeptical look but didn't contradict him. Smart girl.

Draco stepped over the maze of wires and made his way toward Potter, who beamed at him. It was about a million degrees under the heat of the lights, and up close Draco could see that Potter was sweating rather profusely, but he looked exhilarated. For a moment, Draco couldn't look away. It was… disturbing.

"Let me, Potter," Draco said as he reached for the leather cord, his hands shaking slightly. He fought hard against the instinct to steer clear of Potter's skin and let the pads of his fingers brush against Potter's neck. He drew in a sharp breath. Nothing. He did it again, letting his fingers trail a little ways down over Potter's clavicle. Nothing.

Draco's heart pounded. He was sweating a little more than could be explained by his short time under the lights, but otherwise he felt fine. Dizzy, maybe, but not ill. He nearly crowed before Potter interrupted his celebratory musings. "Er, Malfoy? You forget how to tie a bow without your wand?" he asked so only Draco could hear him.

Draco attempted a glare but he was sure his heated cheeks somewhat dampened the effect. "No, Potter, I haven't. And please keep any mention of wands to yourself."

Potter shot him a goofy grin, looking over his shoulder at Pierre. "I don't think that should be much of a problem." Draco huffed. Fucking pervert.

He tied the cord into a bow and tugged the knot a little harder than was strictly necessary before stepping away. Not before running his fingers along the cord once more under the guise of checking that it wasn't too tight, though. Nothing. Draco silently cheered.

The final frame went off without a hitch, and Draco shot the stylist a smug look before he followed Potter to the clothes rack.

"So I was thinking we'd set up a series of go-sees tomorrow to introduce you to some of our clients. Sisley is going to love you, I already know that. Jarred from Burberry and I have had words, but I know you're perfect for this resort collection shoot they have coming up, and-"

"Malfoy."

"-even a sanctimonious prick like him won't let a little bad blood get in the way of a good campaign. Plus, he-"

"Malfoy."

"-owes me for keeping my mouth shut about that little scandal involving him and that underage model from Belarus. Some people just have no sense of-"

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted.

Draco threw his hands in the air. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, what?"

Potter held up the trousers for the next look and gestured between Draco and himself. He'd already stripped down to nothing but the blue shorts. "Do you mind?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "What, you think I've never seen a man in his pants before, Potter? We went to boarding school, for fuck's sake." Never mind that he wouldn't be caught dead within 100 yards of a half-dressed model under normal circumstances. Hell, he usually tried to maintain a buffer of at least twenty yards even when they were fully clothed.

Potter smirked. "Well, I'm not wearing any pants, Malfoy. But like you said, we went to boarding school, so if it's all the same to you…" He started to pull down his shorts and Draco panicked.

"No, no," he said, hands raised in surrender as he slowly backed away from the changing area. "Shorts on until I'm out of the building, Potter. It's nearly noon and I don't want to be put off my lunch. Let's talk later."

Potter laughed and waved his trousers at Draco in farewell. "Whatever you say, boss."

Draco lit up a cigarette and headed for the studio exit, waiting for the nicotine to seep into his bloodstream and calm his nerves. He'd proved the incident from the day before hadn't been a fluke; he was cured. So why didn't he feel better?

~

"Aw, aw, baby. Yeah, ooh yeah. Huh. Listen to this." Draco shimmied his hips as he fiddled with the faucet, not satisfied until the sheets of water beating down against his chest were hot enough to scald. He ducked his head under the spray and started to belt out the first verse. "Spy on me, baby, use sat-el-lite." Draco thrust an arm into the air, voice reverberating in the steamy bathroom. "Infrared to see me move throoough the night." He spun on his heel, feet slippery against the bathtub floor. "Aim, gonna fire, shooot me right. I'm gonna like the way you fight. Uh uh."

Draco lathered his hands up with soap and started to work them across his chest, feet moving in time with his own offbeat rhythm. "Now, you found the se-cret code I use, to wash away my looonely blues. So I can't deny or liii-i-ie, 'cause you're the only one to make me fly." He grabbed his loofa, holding it close to his mouth as he moved into the chorus. "Sex bomb, sex bomb, you're a sex bomb. You-can-give-it-to-me-when-I-need-to-come-along. Sex bomb, sex bomb, you're my sex bomb. And, baby, you can turn me on." Draco pitched his voice low on the last line, twisting his hips until he was nearing sitting in the bathtub.

"No, don't get me wrong, ain't gonna do you no harm-" A sound echoed from the other side of the curtain. Draco froze, straining to hear over the noise of the shower spray. He waited a second before he yanked open the curtain, loofa at the ready, just in case.

Potter was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, and his smirk told Draco he'd been there a while. "I believe the line you're looking for is 'This bomb's made for lovin' and you can shoot it far." He looked pointedly at Draco's crotch, and Draco quickly pulled the curtain across his body to cover himself.

"What. The fuck. Are you doing here!" Draco screamed, mortified that Potter had heard his singing, and infuriated at himself for not recognizing another magical presence in his own flat. Goddamn Muggles. He really was going soft.

Draco's cheeks flushed and he pulled the shower curtain tighter around him. Fucking Potter.

Potter waved the large envelope he was holding in one hand. "The photos are in. I think they're pretty good, so I wanted to show you. Penny gave me the Floo code."

Draco swore under his breath. Penny had no business giving out Draco's Floo code – he'd told her it was the password to his security system, only to be given out to a short list of people in the event of an emergency. The models did not make the list. And it was Saturday night, for fuck's sake. He mentally ran through the stomach-upending potions he could prepare by Monday.

"I'll just meet you out in the sitting room, yeah?" Potter pushed off the wall and exited the bathroom. "Nice place, by the way," came from somewhere down the hall, and Draco rolled his eyes. Who the hell did Potter think he was, acting like a goddamn guest?

"He'll probably want a fucking tour," he grumbled as he shut off the faucet and reached for a towel.

Draco dried himself off and dressed in his standard Saturday-night attire: thin, cream-colored cashmere sweater, black, silk drawstring pajama bottoms and matching slippers. The material slid against his skin and he could practically taste the wine he had airing in the kitchen. So much for small pleasures.

Draco found Potter flipping through a magazine in the sitting room. He held it up when Draco walked in. "You've tabbed practically every page."

Draco glanced at the magazine in Potter's hands, and then at the neatly stacked pile atop the coffee table, hundreds of tiny pieces of paper sticking out from the bindings. "Research," he said, and grabbed his wand off the table, Accioing the decanter of wine from the kitchen along with two glasses. "Wine?"

Potter looked surprised for a moment, but then he smiled and nodded. "Please."

Draco poured them each a glass and handed one to Potter as he sat down on the couch. "Now, where are these pictures you claim to be so good they were worth disrupting my Saturday evening for?"

Potter chuckled. "They're here, and they _are_ that good, but we don't need to talk business straight away."

Draco blinked. "What the fuck else would we talk about?" Clearly, Potter was the sort to make himself at home despite the fact that he was an intruder, but this was a bit much.

Potter's eyes gleamed as they trailed up and down Draco's body, fixing on the sliver of skin above his waistband that had been revealed when Draco sat down. "What you've got hiding under those pajama bottoms, to start." He smirked.

Draco recoiled. "How dare you, Potter! Merlin, in my own home, no less."

Potter's mouth opened but nothing came out, and his confused expression was one Draco had come to associate with models in general. Draco's fault for forgetting for even a second that Potter was now one of them. Fucking poofters. You offer them one glass of wine and they take it as an invitation for sex. "Sorry? I mean… what?"

Draco took a deep breath before answering and took care to enunciate each syllable when he did. "Potter, why on Earth would I have any interest in discussing with you what I have _hiding_ underneath my pajamas?" He took a fortifying sip of his wine when Potter's expression didn't immediately clear. He waited a beat. "I'm not gay, you moron!"

"Um," Potter hesitated, still looking confused. "Then why are you sitting on my lap?"

Draco glanced down, horrified to see he'd sat so close to Potter he was practically on top of him, their hips pressed together on one couch cushion. He scrambled backward, cursing when he spilled wine down the font of his sweater. "Fucking hell!" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again Potter was looking at him with an expression that was part confusion and part amusement.

"The pictures, Potter," Draco bit out, holding out his palm.

Potter smiled, but he reached for the envelope and handed it to Draco without another word. Draco pulled out the proofs and Accioed his loop, pressing it to his eye as he bent over the pictures to study them one at a time. Even in his agitated state, he had to admit he was impressed. They'd come out even better than he'd expected. "Nice, Potter." He moved on to the second sheet. "Did Penny intercept these at the office? I wasn't expecting them until Monday morning."

"No, Pierre rang me and invited me round to see them as soon as they were done."

Draco jerked up and gave Potter a sharp look. "What do you mean, 'invited you round'?"

Potter gave Draco a puzzled look. "I mean, invited me over. To his flat."

"Potter." Draco stopped shortly. "Photographers do _not_ just invite models over for a cup of tea and a nice little chat about a job well done. They invite them over to get their cocks sucked after spewing half-hearted promises of ad campaigns and _Vogue_ editorials." Fucking idiot.

Potter grinned lopsidedly. "Why, Malfoy, are you jealous?"

Draco threw the proofs down on the floor and stood up from the couch, crossing to the Floo. This was the last fucking straw. "Get. Out." Draco was so furious he thought his head might actually explode. Fucking models. Convinced everything was about sex, except when it actually was.

Potter's grin faltered. "C'mon, Malfoy, there's no need to-"

"Out!" Draco fumed, and Potter held up his hands as he stood and walked over to the fireplace.

"Fine, fine. Whatever you say."

Draco held out the small bowl of Floo powder he kept on the mantle and Potter took a pinch before he stepped into the fireplace. He paused with one foot in the hearth and leaned over Draco. His rough cheek brushed against the side of Draco's face, and somewhere in the back of his head Draco noticed that dizzy feeling was back again.

"Just so you know," Potter whispered, "I didn't suck his cock. Though he did offer." Potter stepped all the way into the Floo and called out a name Draco didn't catch. The flames whirred and then settled, and it was a few moments before Draco realized he was still holding the bowl of Floo powder in his outstretched hand. He set the bowl back onto the mantle and shook his head to try to clear it.

He collapsed onto the couch, feeling lightheaded, and Accioed the Bowmore from the pantry. He tossed the cap onto the coffee table and took a swig straight from the bottle. He tried to imagine the expression on Lucius's face if could see him but it didn't make him feel any better. He reached for the pack of Dunhills and pulled out a cigarette, hands trembling as he lit the end with his wand. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the silence of the sitting room. What the fuck was wrong with him?

~

Draco batted the tumbler along the wooden bar top and tried to take stock of his life.

Just two weeks ago, Draco been certain he was downright allergic to men – well, poofters, in any case – and he'd been fine. Happy, even. Sure, there'd been a little more vomiting in his life than he considered ideal, but he'd had it under control. Then Potter had swanned in and in one fell swoop cast years of careful distance and sudden illness in doubt. How utterly fucking predictable.

But the… _incident_ in Draco's flat proved he had a different sort of affliction altogether. Years of perfecting the art of non-contact had given way to a complete lack of bodily awareness. One moment he was within his twenty-yard buffer zone, and the next he was on Potter's lap. Or touching his chest. Or Potter was in his loo. Fucking hell.

Draco tossed back the rest of his scotch and tapped on the bar to signal the bartender. The man raised an eyebrow – Draco was running through the stuff pretty quick, even by his own standards – but he refilled Draco's glass without a word, for which Draco was grateful. He'd spent most of the week shut away in his office – he'd only kept out Penny with the use of a very strong locking charm – and he knew he couldn't get away with it tomorrow; too many meetings. The plan was to get pissed and be too hungover to give a damn.

The bartender set the scotch in front of Draco and Draco took a drink, closing his eyes and relishing the smoky burn as it slipped down his throat.

"Malfoy."

Of course. Draco set down his drink and reached inside his jacket for his Dunhills. He pulled one out and laid the pack on the bar as Potter took a seat on the stool next to his. Draco lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the nicotine shot straight to his head, easing the ever-present ache at the back of his skull. Thank fuck you could still smoke in wizarding pubs.

Potter sighed. "C'mon, Malfoy."

Draco slowly turned on his stool, blowing smoke directly into Potter's face. He was mildly disappointed when Potter didn't bat an eye. "Yes?"

Potter frowned. "Look, Malfoy, about the other night, I'm sorry if-"

"Why'd you decide to become a model, Potter?"

Potter studied Draco for a moment before he waved over the bartender and ordered a drink. They sat in silence until Potter's pint arrived and he took his first sip. He set the glass back on the bar top and turned back to Draco. "Hermione."

Draco's brow furrowed and he started to say something but Potter pressed on before he could get anything out. "I- There was a bloke. _The_ bloke, I had thought, but…" Potter took another drink. His eyes drifted from Draco's and settled somewhere over his left shoulder. "It didn't work out. He left, and I was a mess. Really a mess. I holed myself up in flat until a Doxy infestation forced me to evacuate."

Draco took a drag of his cigarette and tried to imagine the level of filth that would have had to accumulate in order for Doxies to break out. "And what's this got to do with Hermione? Or modeling, for that matter?"

Potter smiled and shook his head. "Well, I had to stay at Ron and Hermione's place while mine got cleaned up. Hermione had weeks worth of lectures stored up by that point." He laughed. "Once she was done laying into me, she came up with the modeling idea. She has a cousin who does it, and she thought it'd be a good way to build up my self-esteem, after everything."

Potter drained his pint and waved the empty glass at the bartender and Draco took the opportunity to study his profile. He could see the hurt in Potter's face, despite his attempt at casualness, and Draco wondered who'd had bollocks to put it there. Poofter or not, Potter was _Potter_, for fuck's sake. "And did it? Help with your self-esteem, I mean."

The bartender set down a fresh pint and Potter took a deep drink, licking the foam from his lips before he answered. "Nope." He glanced at Draco and laughed, and Draco quickly smoothed his expression. He hadn't been expecting that.

Potter leaned his forearms against the bar and ducked his head before smiling at Draco. "I know I shouldn't tell you this, but yours was actually the seventh agency I'd visited."

A surprised huff forced its way from Draco's lips before he could control it. "And?"

Potter's smile turned sheepish. "Rejections, every one of them."

Draco couldn't help it, he laughed, and for a few moments, he couldn't stop. He used the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes. "So all that 'sex itself' business?"

Potter smirked into his glass before he drained the rest of his beer. He pushed the glass away and smiled at Draco "Complete bollocks."

Draco shook his head. He knew he should try to wipe the smile off his face, but he was too amused to care. "I have to hand it to you, Potter. You certainly had me fooled. Forget modeling; you've clearly missed your calling as a Muggle actor."

Potter chuckled. "Couldn't let you see me defeated, now could I? You strike me as the type to kick a man when he's down."

Now it was Draco's turn to smirk. "Depends on what he did to get there in the first place."

Potter tipped his head. "Fair enough. So how the hell did you get into model management? Of all things."

Draco felt a pang, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he'd regret having got so drunk later on. He ordered another scotch. "Well, I moved to London after I'd been acquitted by the Wizengamot, while my father's trial was still going on. I couldn't…" Draco's throat tightened. His cigarette had burnt down to the filter and he tossed it away before lighting another. He took a long pull.

"I was living in a Muggle area, but I managed to meet another wizard early on. Another wayward Death Eater's son, if you can believe it. He'd left the wizarding world when Voldemort returned." Draco shook his head. "The whole time I was holed up in the Manor living with that sick fuck, he was out on his own in London, living it up. Merlin, I envied the hell out of him for that." Potter raised an eyebrow. "What, you don't think I'm capable of feeling jealous, Potter?" Draco scoffed.

Potter laughed. "No, I just didn't think you were capable of admitting it."

Draco covered his smirk with his drink. "As I was saying, he and I became friends. In-fucking-separable, to tell the truth. He helped me navigate the Muggle world, but…" Draco took a drag of his cigarette, tilting his head back as he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. "Turned out he was like you."

Potter's eyes widened in an expression of mock innocence. "What, a Gryffindor? Brunet?"

"Oh, fuck off." Draco took another drink and signaled to the bartender for another. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"He was gay, then?"

Draco nodded. "I didn't know at first, but one night we got utterly pissed off a bottle of Laphroaig – my father's favorite scotch. Callum and I drank a bottle once a month as a sort of ironic ritual – and he told me. We got into a screaming row and didn't speak for a week. Said he was fucking in love with me. Fucking arsehole."

Draco lapsed into silence.

"And?"

Draco nodded at the bartender and took a drink. "And the next thing I know his solicitor's at my flat handing over the papers to the agency."

Potter looked confused and Draco gave him an impatient look before going on. "He was the owner. His solicitor said Callum had left town, and that he'd requested that ownership be transferred to me. I never heard from him again after that night." Draco took another drink. "I knew about the agency, of course, although I didn't know shit about modeling. If I had, I would've worked out the whole poofter thing a lot earlier." Potter snorted. "At first, the idea appalled me, but not as much as it did my father, which is why I decided to do it. That and the fact that the Malfoy vaults were frozen during the trials."

Potter shook his head, but he was smiling. "Told you you're the type to kick a man when he's down."

Draco's expression turned serious. "And I told you I have no problem kicking a man that deserves to be on the ground." Potter tipped his head in acknowledgement, as Draco had known he would. There was no question Lucius fucking deserved it.

Draco waved his glass of scotch at the bartender and pointed to Potter. Potter grinned. "What, beer not good enough for you, Malfoy?" Draco wrinkled his nose up and Potter chuckled, shaking his head. "Fucking ponce."

Draco gave him a sharp look and Potter held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. Calm down. I'm sure scotch is very manly." The bartender set a tumbler down in front of Potter and he took a sip, screwing his eyes up as soon as he tipped the glass to his lips. "Merlin, that fucking burns!"

Draco looked smug. "Poncy, my arse. That stuff will put hair on your chest, Potter."

Potter crossed his arms on the bar, his eyes drifting to the open neck of Draco's shirt. He leaned close, his breath hot against Draco's ear, heavy with the scent of barley and smoke. "I much prefer hairless chests, actually."

Draco jerked away, realizing too late he'd leaned in to meet Potter across the empty space between their seats, his foot hooked on one of the rungs of Potter's stool. Why the _fuck_ did this keep happening to him? He straightened before he turned back to Potter, livid. "I already told you, Potter," he bit out. "I am _not_ a shirtlifter."

Potter propped his elbows on the bar, looking thoughtful. Draco met his eyes for a moment but quickly looked away. He felt dizzy again. Dizzy and too hot. He didn't know what the hell was happening to him, but it made him feel inexplicably embarrassed, and angry that he felt embarrassed. This was all Potter's fucking fault, after all.

"I have to go to the loo," he said, pushing out his stool, catching himself on the bar when he stumbled a little. "Perhaps you shouldn't be here when I get back."

~

Draco shut off the faucet and shook the excess water from his hands before running one up over his face and then around the back of his neck. He braced his arms on either side of the sink and looked up into the mirror.

He looked like shit.

He felt like shit, too, and he was most definitely drunk. Drunker than he'd intended, if he was sitting in a bar with Potter, of all people, talking about Callum and his father. Though no amount of booze could explain why he couldn't stop thinking about how close Potter had been at the bar, how he'd touched Draco's shoulder and, still, nothing had happened.

Draco sighed. It seemed his plan to get pissed had worked a little too well, and he prayed he had enough hangover potion to get him through work the next day. All he wanted now was his flat and his bed.

The bathroom door opened and Draco looked up to see Potter standing half inside the doorway, one hand still wrapped around the door. He met Draco's eye in the mirror and Draco felt a sharp shiver of fear course through him, his hand automatically clutching the front of his shirt. He took a deep breath.

"What the fuck do you want, Potter? Don't forget I'm your boss, and I'll have no problem tossing you out on your arse simply for annoying the fuck out of me."

Potter stepped all the way inside the loo and shut the door behind him, but he didn't move any closer. "I want to know what the fuck your problem is, Malfoy. Or, more specifically, the real reason you have a problem with people _like me_."

Draco felt completely drained all of a sudden and he leaned heavier against the sink. He let his gaze drop from Potter's to stare into the grimy drain, wishing he wasn't too drunk to Apparate home.

Potter's steps sounded loudly against the tile floor before a hand wrapped around Draco's shoulder and spun him around roughly. Draco caught himself on the lip of the sink, but he was too exhausted to do much more. Potter was blocking the way and he appeared much less drunk than Draco had given him credit for. "Look, Potter," he said, aiming for sardonic and hoping Potter didn't notice that the sink was the only thing keep him from sliding straight onto the floor. "I'm fucking allergic, okay? Are you happy, now?"

Potter's serious façade cracked and he looked at Draco bemused. "You're allergic to… to gay people? To gay men?" At Draco's nod, Potter pressed further. "And by allergic, you mean…?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Allergic, Potter. Nausea, vomiting, itching, a rash. The works. Well, until you, that is." Draco snorted. "Typical, you're the _chosen poofter_." Draco looked up and caught the predatory gleam in Potter's eye, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, and realized he'd made a rather grave tactical error. "Look, Potter, don't get any ideas. It probably doesn't happen because you're a wizard. I already fucking told you that I'm not-"

Potter stepped closer and his thigh slid between Draco's legs, pinning Draco against the sink. "These _allergies_, did they happen with Callum? Were you allergic to him, too?"

Draco panicked. "What? No. Look, Potter-"

"You're not allergic, Malfoy; you're gay. And I'm not going to walk away and make it any easier for you to hide behind some made-up illness."

Draco's head swam. Potter's leg was warm against his, and Draco fought the familiar dizzy feeling as heat clawed its way up the back of his neck. He could feel his palms start to slip against the smooth surface of the sink, but he wasn't going to be sick. He was just… Just drunk. "Listen, Potter, don't you dare fucking tell me-"

Potter put his hands on Draco's chest, cutting his diatribe short, and Draco froze. His breath started coming fast, short, hard pants that filled his rib cage, pushing his chest into Potter's warm palms over and over. He wasn't going to be sick, no, but there was a good chance he'd pass out from hyperventilation alone. Still, he couldn't gather himself enough to do anything about it; Potter still had him pressed against the sink.

Potter leaned in close, his leg pressing tighter between Draco's thighs. His lips brushed against the shell of Draco's ear as he spoke. "So do you feel sick, now, Malfoy?" he whispered. "Itchy? Allergic?"

A shiver ran through Draco's body and he felt goose bumps ripple across his skin beneath his clothing. He fought hard not to shudder. "A little, yes," he said shakily. It wasn't strictly a lie. Draco didn't fucking know what the fuck he was feeling anymore. "See? I told you."

Potter grinned against his skin. "You're forgetting one thing, Draco."

This time Draco couldn't stop the tremble. "And what's that?"

Potter dragged his tongue along the shell of Draco's ear as he reached a hand between them to cup Draco's crotch, and Draco's knees would have given out had Potter's thigh not been there to prop him up. "You're hard."

Draco's eyes widened. He could feel Potter's hand heavy against his cock, and every teasing movement of Potter's fingers along his shaft felt like another taunt. Panic blossomed hot and sharp in Draco's chest, white noise ringing in his ears, and he knew he needed to get out of there, fast. He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat was tight and dry, and before he could call Potter off there were lips pressed to his and a hand cradling the back of his head.

For all Potter's bravado, the kiss was gentle, despite the rough scratch of stubble against his mouth, and the sensation was so foreign that for a second Draco forgot about trying to escape. Then Potter squeezed his fingers around Draco's cock and Draco groaned loudly against his lips, collapsing forward onto Potter as he pressed Draco harder against the sink. It'd been so long since Draco had been touched – since Hogwarts, in fact – and Draco gave over to the haze of booze and fear and pleasure and kissed Potter back.

Soon he was desperate, clawing at Potter's chest and back, needing constant sensation to stop himself from thinking too much about what he was doing, what it all meant. But Potter had other ideas. He placed two hands against Draco's shoulders and pushed him away, grabbing Draco's wrists and pinning them behind his back when Draco refused to let go.

Potter kissed Draco softly on the mouth and then looked him straight in the eye. "Tell me you want this."

Anger and embarrassment surged through Draco's body and he lifted a knee to try to push Potter away, thrashing his upper body to try to break free from Potter's hold. Potter just pressed closer, trapping Draco more securely against the sink. Draco stopped struggling and met his gaze with narrowed eyes, chest heaving from fury and exertion. Malfoys never gave up all pretense of pride, but there was only so much one could muster under certain circumstances. Draco gritted his teeth. "I'm fucking hard, aren't I?"

Potter pushed his hips forward, spreading Draco's thighs wider, and Draco tipped his head back and moaned as Potter's hip rubbed up hard against him. Potter kissed a trail along Draco's jaw, biting down hard on Draco's earlobe when he reached it and whispered, "I don't want you waking up tomorrow and blaming this whole thing on me." He shifted between Draco's thighs, his hip rubbing right up against Draco's cock again, and Draco bit down hard on his tongue not to moan a second time. He refused to give Potter the satisfaction. "I want to know how much you want it."

Draco breathed in hard and fast through his nose, still biting on his tongue. Goddamn fucking Potter. Draco should have sent him packing the moment he'd walked through his office door; Potter was inevitably at the root of every one of his greatest humiliations. He'd lost complete control of himself. He felt wild and desperate. Needy, even, though he'd never admit that out loud. He had no idea how he'd feel about all this tomorrow, but right now his cock was fucking _throbbing_ and he wanted to come. And he wanted Potter to make him. The thought made Draco dizzy and his stomach clenched in anticipation.

He thrust back hard for the first time and he relished Potter's small grunt of surprised pleasure. "I think you know how much I fucking want it, Potter," he hissed.

Potter recovered and shot Draco a smug smile before he fisted the back of Draco's hair, exposing his neck so he could bite at the thin skin beneath his ear. "Oh, I do know, _Draco_. But I want _you_ to know it, too." He moved his thigh harder against Draco's cock as he pushed Draco's jacket off of his shoulders, trapping his arms in the sleeves, and unbuttoned Draco's shirt to mid-chest. He pushed the material to the side and took one of Draco's nipples in his mouth. Draco threw his head back and hissed, struggling to free his arms so he could pull Potter closer. Pleasure shot straight to his cock and he wanted _more_, everywhere.

Potter pulled away and leaned against the sink, his arms braced on either side of Draco's thighs, but not touching him anywhere. He said nothing as Draco sat there panting, wild-eyed, about to yell for Potter to get the fuck on with it before he realized what Potter was waiting for. He swore. "Fucking hell, Potter. Do you have to be so fucking sanctimonious about every goddamn thing?" Potter didn't move and Draco let out a strangled cry of frustration. "Fine, you fucking prick. I want it, okay? I want it."

Potter grinned, placing a quick kiss to Draco's lips. "I know," he said, and Draco would've screamed again if Potter hadn't gone straight for the fastenings of his trousers, working them free with a precision Draco didn't want to think too hard about. There wasn't time to dwell, however, because the next moment Potter wrapped his hand around Draco's cock and _squeezed_ and Draco's mind short-circuited, his whole body jerking. With his arms still bound in the sleeves of his jacket, Draco nearly fell from his precarious perch on the sink, but Potter's free hand grabbed his shoulder to steady him. "I've got you."

Draco would have retorted with something scathing if he'd been capable of speech, but Potter's hand on his cock, moving up and down in short, quick strokes, had reduced him to nothing but moans and grunts. Potter sped up and it felt so fucking _good_ Draco became downright shameless. He rocked his hips up to meet every stroke, tilting his head back to give Potter better access as Potter kissed and bit at his neck and chest.

It was all too fucking much, and when Potter's thumb swept over the leaking slit of Draco's cock, squeezing tight around the head, Draco came. Hard. He squeezed his eyes squeezed shut as he cried out and his head fell back against the mirror, legs flailing as his arse slipped down into the basin of the sink, barely aware of the faucet digging into his lower back.

Draco stayed like that until the waves of pleasure started to ebb, the tremors of his orgasm leaving him trembling. He kept his eyes shut, listening to the sounds of his heavy breathing trade off with Potter's own. Finally, he cracked open an eye, and the fierce desire he saw in Potter's caught him off guard, unexpected in the hazy lethargy of post-orgasm. It suddenly occurred to Draco that Potter might expect him to reciprocate, but he was too sated and exhausted to worry; he was through panicking for the moment.

Instead, Potter surged forward and kissed Draco hard on the mouth, and Draco didn't hesitate kissing him back, wanted to, even in the dawning clarity of release. Potter pulled back grinning, and Draco would have rolled his eyes if he'd had the energy. Figured Potter would be a sodding romantic.

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't think shagging the boss will get you out of work, Potter. I run a very tight ship." Draco tried for stern, but he was still a little breathless and it detracted some from his air of authority. Still, he'd approach this like he did everything: with false bravado until he no longer had to fake it.

Potter's grin broadened. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Draco nodded. "Good, now help me out of this fucking sink. You owe me a scotch." Potter laughed and Draco couldn't help a small smile as he was hauled to his feet. Potter pulled him close and Draco's head swam with that dizzy lightheadedness he'd come to expect around Potter. Though if he closed his eyes, it really wasn't all that bad.

Draco stepped back after a minute and straightened his jacket, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, enough of that, Potter. I may have just got my first wank in the men's, but I'm not a total poofter."

The second the words left his mouth, Draco feared he'd utterly fucked up, but when he looked up at Potter he was relieved to find him still smiling. "Whatever you say, boss." Potter reached for the door to the loo and held it open, gesturing for Draco to go ahead.

Draco's lips twitched and he nodded at Potter before he exited back into the bar. Potter grabbed his arse on his way out and Draco shot him a sneer over his shoulder, but there was no bite to it. Potter laughed and Draco couldn't help his returning smile. Fucking pervert.

Draco grinned to himself. Perhaps he wouldn't have to fake it so long, after all.

~


End file.
